Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“But—”
He kisses me over my protests.
He pins me against him so firmly I shake.
With Dexter, it’s always easier to obey, and normally I don’t mind.
But tonight, there’s something different in the air.
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he mutters against my lips. “I’m not trying to get rid of you, I swear.”
My heart buoys with relief.
Not yet, I want to tell him. But what about when this doesn’t make sense anymore?
What about when we’re supposed to check out and move on, when the unofficial contract expires?
His mouth feels so hot on mine, so eager he’s almost desperate.
He moves with the same focused intensity as his hands, showering me with attention.
I want to believe him.
And although I have questions, I don’t dare voice them as he guides me back to the desk and sweeps the paperwork aside. Catness is curled up on a green ottoman in the corner now, watching us lazily.
And I watch as the paper flutters to the floor and wonder if that’s what will happen to me when we’re done.
If I’ll control where I land, or if the fall will just dictate my landing.
His tongue traces a neat path down my body, and soon I forget to worry, to question our future or his affection.
There’s no room for doubt in this frantic pleasure and the panting heat of our joined bodies.
There’s no room after, when my face is buried in his shoulder and his embrace keeps the doubts at bay.
Maybe we don’t have to figure everything out now.
Maybe we can live in the moment and that’ll be enough.
The future can stay in the distance and if we don’t think about it, it doesn’t have to hurt us.
Dexter kisses me again, more gently than ever.
His thumb strokes my jaw. Our clothes are strewn around everywhere like a tornado came through and it makes me grin.
I’ll never have this passion with another man.
“I’m no psychic, but I see a bath in your future,” he whispers, grazing the skin below my ear with his teeth. “And then a glass of wine with dinner. Maybe two.”
“Only if you’re with me.” I wind my arms around his neck.
“Deal. You’re one hardass negotiator, Sweet Stuff.”
For the first time this evening, his smile reaches his eyes, and my worries melt into the promises of good Bordeaux and another night in his arms.
20
SWEET MEMORIES (DEXTER)
It’s so late I can’t tell what time it is.
Maybe early morning.
Outside, the navy sky brightens into the familiar pale dawn glow that heralds the sunrise. Soon, the horizon will be brimming with the new morning, the birds will be chirping, and Kansas City will become the familiar loud, bellowing beast I know how to tame.
For now, though, everything is quiet except my thoughts.
Junie lays curled against my side, sleeping like a kitten, her cheek pressed into my chest.
Her slow breath skitters across my skin, reminding me how damn sensitive everything is when it comes to her.
Last night was good.
Really fucking good.
Hell, this girl could put me in chains and I wouldn’t consider it a bad night. All she has to do is smile at me, and I want her more than I can speak.
Yet somehow, she still doesn’t think she’s important.
Somehow, she thinks I can magically switch off when this arrangement expires and cast her to the wind.
Goddamn.
I look down at her, holding a breath.
Her eyes weave dreams under her eyelids and her face is slack. I can see the morning light dancing on her eyelashes.
Those freckles she tries to hide whenever we go out.
The little imperfections that are slowly driving me insane.
A tiny line scar just above her eyebrow. The smattering of acne scars across her chin, invisible unless I really look for them in this kind of light.
The way her belly moves when she’s bent at this angle, soft and authentic, signs of a real working woman who doesn’t have the time to log her macros or sweat off calories at the gym every day.
I love it a thousand times more than any plastic model because it’s honest.
She doesn’t hide who she is, and that makes her easy to trust and easier to respect.
It’s the most precious thing to look at her like this, to see all the autumn fire of her hair, to drink in what she looks like when she doesn’t have a hostile world pressing down on her.
Right now, she looks young. Vulnerable. Open in a way I don’t often see.
Anytime something reminds her to hide behind her walls—like the fact that we’re pretending, or there’s a deal at stake—she shuts down.
I shouldn’t care whether she’s vulnerable with me when the acting and sanity-shredding sex should be enough.
The fact that she’s here, matching my every move in this sham, should be plenty.
The fact that I get to share a bed with her should be everything.
Fuck, I’m getting too greedy for my own good.